


for this fallen affair

by charizona



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2813240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which every time a person falls in love, a red line like a tally mark appears on their wrist. The line turns black if their love is requited. The line becomes a scar if the one they love dies.</p>
<p>Follows canon, except with this cute little AU added in. Although, the angst is there if you squint. Also, they go on a mission together. Starts almost right after HG is reinstated as an agent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for this fallen affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elainebarrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elainebarrish/gifts).



“Who was the lucky suitor?”

Myka shifts, pressing her shoulder blades against the wall of the Bed and Breakfast, to see Helena drifting up the stairway. She’d been listening to Pete in the shower, waiting for him to get out, mainly because she hadn’t really had anything better to do. Myka glances down to her own arm, where she’d been absentmindedly rubbing the scar on the inside of her forearm. She shrugs, dropping her arms to her sides before she digs her hands into her pockets.

Helena sidles up next to her and leans against the wall. “I’m not going to bite, Myka,” she says quietly, her voice just a whisper, the sound almost drowned out by the sound of the shower from within the bathroom. After a moment, she adds, smirking, “Unless you asked nicely.”

Myka doesn’t fight the grin that spins its way onto her face and Helena nudges her shoulder. Allowing a small pocket of air to fall from her lips, Myka supposes that she’s going to have to get used to this, to Helena, to working with her. She doesn’t know how that’s supposed to _work_. “It’s just _weird_ ,” Myka admits, finally breaking her silence. “You’re HG Wells and you’re a Warehouse Agent. You’re _my_ colleague.”

“Arguably the smartest of the bunch, I might add,” Helena inputs, grinning. The smile seems less malicious than it had earlier in the day when she’d been so very charming and convincing. It seems, to Myka, genuine.

Myka rolls her eyes and listens to Pete hum, very loudly, in the shower. He can’t sing to save his life and Myka is grateful that even he knows that. Finally, she glances down at the floor. “It’s Sam,” she breathes, the name feeling thick on her tongue. She’d been thinking about him on and off since Helena had mentioned him a few weeks ago on the mission with Claudia and, as much as she hates to admit it, she can’t turn the thoughts off.

When Helena doesn’t say anything more, she continues, holding up her arm to show the long, almost faded scar on it, “When he died it faded from an angry red, but it’s -- it’s still there. Sometimes the memory of him is nice, but other times it’s…”

“Taxing,” Helena finishes softly, nodding. She rolls up her own sleeve and touches smooth, unblemished skin. “I’ve never had the honor.”

Myka looks at the space, not knowing what she’d expected. The words tumble from her mouth before she can stop them. “You’ve never been in love?”

“I don’t believe that is quite how it works,” Helena replies, letting her sleeve fall. Her head falls, too, hitting the wall softly as her neck rolls back. “I remember, my mother had two marks and my father had none, though I believe he loved her anyway.” She shrugs. “I could be broken, I suppose, though it makes more sense that I’ve fallen in love with ideas, the Warehouse, and, in a more platonic and irrevocable sense, my dear Christina.”

Inside the bathroom, the shower shuts off, water dripping dramatically. Myka supposes that she should say something to fill the silence they’ve fallen into, but she doesn’t know what to say.

Helena does it for her, directing the conversation from herself. “How does it feel?” she asks, voice quiet and soft. The sense of bravado that Myka had come to associate with her is and her words is absent and Myka takes a moment to look at her.

“What do you mean?”

“Your line. Does it hurt? Or did it, when Sam was alive?”

Myka pauses and stretches her fingers, drumming the tips on her thighs. “It doesn’t, now. When it was red, it burned when it appeared and hurt, kind of like a sore itch or something, when Sam was near, but nothing… painful, I guess.”

Helena pushes herself from the wall and moves to stand in front of Myka, reaching up to run a hand through her hair. In the low light of the hallway, Myka notices the little things: Helena’s waterfall of hair, dark eyes. Helena opens her mouth and takes a breath before she says, “And when it turned black?”

Myka looks up, meeting Helena’s eyes, and shrugs. “It never did.”

Helena opens her mouth to say something, but Pete opens the door just then, clad only in the towel from the waist down. Helena raises her eyebrows and the moment is gone, Myka figures, as a small, surprised smirk finds its way onto Helena’s face.

“Oh, _hey_ ,” Pete says, and Myka swears that he’s sucking it in, but she just rolls her eyes. “You ladies here for the show?”

“And what show would that be?” Helena asks, leaning against the opposite wall.

Pete makes to untie the towel at his waist and Myka takes that as her cue to leave. “I’m leaving,” she says quickly, reaching down for her shower items in the bag at her feet. Helena’s eyes widen considerably and she, too, makes a bail down the hallway toward her new room, just as Pete groans.

“I was just tightening it! I’m all about consent, ladies! I was talking about the gun show!”

Myka closes the door just in time to see Pete flexing his arms in an almost empty hallway and Myka meets Helena’s eyes for a brief moment, just before a curtain of raven hair disappears through a doorway. Myka shuts her own door and presses her back against it, not really caring about the layer of condensation.

She looks down at her forearm. She’d come to terms with the fact that Sam would never love her back a long time ago, but Helena’s words echoed in her head, the story about her parents. What if he had been broken? Or just didn’t have lines?

Myka shakes her head and starts stripping, attempting to clear her head.

 

.

 

The next morning, Myka’s up before anyone else. She likes it that way, likes the solitude that can be found in the foggy, South Dakota mornings. And she likes using the coffeemaker before the others, specifically Pete. She makes her coffee and settles down at the table with the newspaper, reading over the mundane Univille news and relishes in the silence.

That is, until there isn’t any. “Good morning,” Helena hums, stepping into the kitchen. She starts to make tea, carefully, and out of pure curiosity, Myka finds herself watching her. Helena does it almost methodically, taking Leena’s kettle from the cupboard and putting it on the stove. Myka wonders where she learned how to do it.

“You’re staring,” Helena murmurs, glancing over at Myka with just the hint of a smile on her lips.

Myka flushes and curses her easy blushes. She forces her eyes back down to the newspaper and stares at a headline, not really reading it. “I was just thinking about… well, you, I guess. How did you learn how to do that?”

Helena leaves the kettle and comes to sit next to Myka, who finally allows herself to look up, deciding that her cheeks have returned to normal color. “I still have some secrets,” Helena admits.

“Artie won’t like that.”

“What, that I suddenly know how to brew tea after over a century in bronze?” Helena drawls, her eyes rolling. “Please, lock me up now. Save him the trouble.”

Myka laughs into her coffee. She doesn’t say anything more, turning her attention to Leena, who suddenly appears in the kitchen. She raises her eyes at the kettle on the stove, but says nothing, just as Helena twists in her chair to see who it is. “It’s nice to see you’re adapting, Agent Wells,” Leena greets politely.

“Please, call me Helena.”

“Helena, then,” Leena amends. “Do you want anything for breakfast?” She gestures toward some bread, but just as Helena is about to open her mouth, Artie storms his way into the dining room, Claudia and Pete trailing sleepily behind him.

“No time,” he says, dropping several case files onto the table, disrupting Myka’s newspaper. “Two hits during the night. Claudia and Pete will get the first one and, as much as I hate to say this, Myka you’ll have to take _her_ with you. Since you like her so much.” His words are venomous and Myka fights the urge to flinch.

“C’mon Artie,” Claudia groans, dropping herself into the chair next to Myka’s. “It’s, what, eight in the morning? I don’t think I can take being on a plane right now.”

“ _You’re_ not going on a plane. Though, Myka is. Here,” he says, handing out the folders almost frantically. “Read up on them on the way there.” He doesn’t give one to Helena and Myka shoots her a sympathetic look.

They’re on a plane two hours later and Myka shares the folder. The town they’re heading to, some mountain city in Colorado, is being ravaged by an artifact that is leaving the users dead and the folder is shedding absolutely no light on what it could possibly be. Approximately somewhere above a corner of Nebraska, Myka notices how loosely the folder is sitting in Helena’s hands and she glances over to find Helena asleep. She smiles, reaching over carefully to slip the sheets of paper from Helena’s grasp.

Helena shifts and curls into herself, tucking against the window of the plane. Myka wonders if this is her first time on a plane. She wonders a lot of things about Helena, specifically about what she had been doing when she was alone and out of MacPherson’s grasp. She thinks about everything that Helena had to experience alone, in this horrible and scary new world. Going from Victorian England to… this. Myka knows that it had to have been frightening. Looking at Helena’s face now, just a brush of a soft expression gracing Helena’s features, hair falling into her face, she looks utterly innocent.

The feeling passes after a moment and Myka forces her eyes away, feeling wrong for staring. No one cares, no one is looking at her, but she feels out of place anyway.

She doesn’t know why.

 

.

 

They think they’ve got it. A pocketwatch that somehow, starts counting time toward the user’s death, though Myka’s not sure how exactly it came to be that way. When Myka mentions her thoughts to Helena, when they’re sitting across from each other in a small, definitely small-town diner, Helena stops chewing thoughtfully.

“It sounds familiar,” she manages, after swallowing a large lump of pancakes. “Though I believe I’d have to see it before I make any assumptions.”

Myka nods, spreading out some of the papers in front of Helena. “Right here it says that the first victim went to a pawn shop the day he died. Then, his son was mugged. Both the son and the mugger died, but I’m betting I know what the mugger took. The police officer who bagged the items on the mugger’s body died a day later. My guess is that it’s sitting in an evidence bag somewhere in the local police station, just waiting for someone else to touch it.”

Helena nods, pursing her lips. “I didn’t quite understand a good chunk of what you just said, but I’ll gather that you’re right.” She cuts into the rest of her pancakes. “How are we going to get in?”

“That’s where I’m a bit… restrained. We could always pull the federal agent card and demand to see the evidence, but Artie says it’s better to make friends than enemies and… federal agents don’t make friends.”

“Hm.” Helena looks out the window toward the main street of the town and Myka finds herself tracing the sharp edge of Helena’s jawline with her eyes. Helena looks at her again and Myka pretends that she wasn’t staring. “I say that we do it that way and if they don’t cooperate, then we do it the old way.”

“The old way?” Myka raises an eyebrow, leaning back in the cushiony booth.

“I believe Claudia called it a, um, five finger discount?”

Myka laughs, outright, and rubs her palms on her thighs. “That’s usually applied when you’re stealing things that are from a _store_ ,” Myka points out, chuckling. “But, my, Helena Wells, you’re so scandalous.”

“Well, I never was modest,” Helena agrees, wiping her lips with her napkin to remove all traces of syrup. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” Myka murmurs, following in Helena’s lead as the other woman gets up out of the booth. They exit the small diner, out into the misty Colorado early afternoon. Myka trails after Helena, knowing full well that Helena has no idea where she’s going. She waits for the inevitable falter in Helena’s steps and when it happens, Helena’s hands drift to her pocket, pulling out the sheet of paper that Myka had given her as a brief of the situation.

Myka waits as Helena reads it. Finally, she sighs.

“Need something?” Myka asks, trying her best not to act as if she knows more than the other agent, even if she does.

Helena looks at her, rolling her eyes. “Lead the way, Agent Bering.”

Myka steps in front of her, walking in the direction she knows the police station to be. “Don’t mind if I do. Now, what’s our plan?” They walk side by side, steps matching.

“A plan? Aren’t you very in charge,” Helena muses, the corner of her lips curving upwards.

“Excuse me?” Myka laughs, acting affronted as she scales the steps to the front door of the police station. The building is less of a station and looks more like a diner, but the windows are tinted and Myka holds the door open for Helena. There’s only a single guard sitting behind a desk in the front room and he really is a guard, Myka notices, looking at his ranks on his sleeve. She figures that this town can’t sacrifice a police officer to man the desk.

Helena lets her go ahead and Myka does, pulling out her old secret service badge and holding it up as she approaches the desk. “Secret Service, I’m Agent Bering. I’d like to see your evidence room, this is a matter of, uh, national security.”

He gives them a look and he can’t be more than twenty, honestly, before shrugging. “Sure, I guess. If the President cares so much about our dirty laundry, he can have it.” He gets up, a little slow for Myka’s tastes, and leads the way through several doors and hallways. Helena is very silent, so much so that Myka finds herself looking over her shoulder to make sure that she’s still following.

“Ok. Well, you guys can just look around,” he tells them, holding the door to the evidence room, which is more like a closet. “Make sure you stop by the front desk on your way out. Sign your names.” He leaves, then, and they’re alone, crammed into a small closet with a singular shelf. Myka pulls out a pair of gloves from her back pocket and advises Helena to do the same, already searching for the evidence bag.

“We’re just going to take it?” Helena asks, and Myka fights the urge to stiffen when she feels Helena’s breath on her neck.

“That’s the plan,” she replies, standing on her toes to get to a higher shelf.

Helena smirks, leaning back. “The plan, yes.”

They continue searching quietly, and Myka’s eyes scan over seemingly normal things, but then again, she’s never been a police officer. Finally, her gaze lands on it, near the back of a shelf just at her eye level. She grabs the back and opens it, taking out the pocketwatch gingerly. She holds it in her purple-gloved hands before Helena holds out a static bag and Myka drops it inside.

She doesn’t hear the ticking that starts and doesn’t notice the lack of a spark as the watch falls into the bag.

 

.

 

It’s later when it happens. Myka steps into the street and Helena has the foresight to be looking both ways, quick enough to see the car quickly approaching and her hand jerks out, fingers curling into Myka’s jacket to yank her backward.

Myka stumbles back a few steps, breathing out, “Woah,” as the truck roars by. “That was…”

“Too close for comfort,” Helena affirms. They continue walking, making their way back to the car and then, hopefully, on to the airport. Myka can hear her heartbeat thundering in her ears, her mind replaying the event.

She’s careful with the watch as she settles it in the cupholder of the car. “So many died, just because of this watch. We can’t risk touching it to spend much time looking at it, so we’ll have to wait until we get back to learn about its history.”

Helena bites her lip, fingers toying with the corner of the bag. “Pity. I’d like to know what amount of hatred could case a pocketwatch to become a death bringer.”

Myka nods her assent, starting the car. A few minutes later, they’re on the highway toward Denver and the airport. A few hours later, Myka’s hands are wrapped around the steering wheel as she stares ahead, not really looking at anything in particular. She’s thinking about eating some of Leena’s famous soup when she gets home; her stomach growls in response.

Helena springs into action, a yelp coming from her throat as a car from the opposite lane veers into Myka’s, coming straight for them, and Myka doesn’t move out of the way. Helena jerks the wheel to the right and the car just barely misses them, tires screeching, and Myka finds herself shaking her head, clicking the car out of cruise control as she slowly comes to a stop on the side of the road.

“What was that?” Helena asks frantically, looking over her shoulder at the car disappearing in the distance.

“I… I don’t know,” Myka says honestly. “I saw it, but it was like I couldn’t move or do anything about it. What’s going on?”

At the same moment, the two of them look down at the watch, still inside the neutralizer static bag. It makes sense, Myka had been the only one to touch it when they’d found it. Myka sighs, her heart finally calming down, before she says, “There must have been a hole in my gloves. Or -- or something.”

“Okay,” Helena says slowly, like the gears in her mind are working through sludge. Finally, she comes to a conclusion. “We should call Artie.”

They do. He has nothing of importance to say on the matter, besides, “Keep your eyes out and don’t die.”

Myka doesn’t do what she wants to do, which is yell at him and tell him that they’re going to be on a _plane_ in two hours, where there are several opportunities for accidental death, and she only leans back into her seat with resignation. She takes a moment to glare at the static bag, hoping that the artifact will somehow feel the negative energy and feel bad. After a moment or two, she decides that she’s having no such luck. Helena stays silent.

It’s there, sitting on the side of the road, that she realizes that the two of them are no longer on the side of the road, but parked on train tracks. She realizes, with complete certainty, that a train is heading right for their direction.

“Helena?”

“Hm?” Helena turns to her, looking like she hasn’t realized the intensity of the situation. Myka wonders if she’s imagining the whole thing.

Myka points past her, in the direction of the train. It’s not close enough that it’s started to blow its whistle, but she supposes that will be happening pretty soon. “Is that a, uh, train?”

Helena looks over and stiffens, quite suddenly, nodding. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Myka clenched her jaw and goes for the keys, turning them in the ignition. The engine rolls. And rolls. And sputters. “Oh my _god_ , come on, come on.”

“Myka,” Helena warns, like it’ll _help_. The train whistles, too, and all it’s doing is putting Myka under even more pressure. She goes for the door, deciding that paying for a rental car isn’t the worst thing in the world as long as they’re both alive. It won’t budge and she even goes for the locks, even though she can clearly see that it’s unlocked. She pushes on it relentlessly.

“It’s not working!” Myka almost screams, frustrated beyond measure. She blows out a puff of steam from her nostrils and places her hands on the wheel.

Helena looks between her and train, raven hair gliding on her shoulders. “What if it’s only an illusion? From the artifact? Weren’t we just on the side of the road?”

“Was it just an illusion when the other three people died?” Myka looks at her, not missing the way Helena’s gaze flickers down to her lips. She does miss, however, the spark that ignites in Helena’s eyes as she glances at the train one last time before turning back to Myka.

“Very well, then,” Helena mutters and then she’s leaning in toward Myka, pressing her lips clumsily against Myka’s own and she tastes surprisingly like starburst. The kiss is quick and Helena is leaning back before Myka can really even register what Helena’s lips feel like, but right now, Myka has an idea.

She grabs the static bag and pulls the watch from inside of it, ignoring Helena’s small objection at her touching it with her bare hands. “My gun,” Myka says suddenly, “Where is it?”

“The bag,” Helena answers, pushing herself into the backseat with surprising dexterity. She shuffles through Myka’s things and pulls out the handgun, giving it over quickly.

Myka shoots the passenger side window and it shatters. She scrambles into the passenger seat, throwing the watch onto the ground a few feet away and takes careful aim.

Right before she takes the shot, she mutters, “Artie’s going to kill me.”

She hits the gold metal square in the middle of it and the train disappears. They’re back on the side of the road on an interstate in Colorado and all Myka can hear is the heavy sound of Helena’s breathing. Her gun isn’t in her hand and Helena’s once again in the passenger seat, but it’s like the watch never existed. Myka sighs, the sound breaking the odd silence.

“We have a flight to catch, I’m afraid,” Helena points out, and Myka wants to ask her about so many things, but she only nods, starting the car once again before merging onto the road.

 

.

 

Back at the inn, Myka sits on the corner of her bed. Artie had been enraged that they’d ruined the artifact and had left it there, but Myka had thoroughly explained to him that they weren’t even sure where there was. She’d checked on the plane; there weren’t any train tracks where they’d been stopped on the interstate. Regardless, Artie had been furious with her and still refused to acknowledge Helena and Myka ended up taking full responsibility for the incident.

Normally, she’d be pissed. With Pete, she’d be even more pissed.

This time, she’s inherently curious, not only because of the sideways mission, but because of the odd burning sensation that she’s feeling on her arm. The mark isn’t there yet, but it was like this before, the first time. She rubs at it, a little too violently, like it’s a mosquito bite, and the sensation goes away.

She’s looking at a huge stack of inventory tomorrow as punishment and she’s not looking forward to it. She doesn’t need that _and_ a new line to deal with.

 

.

 

Myka likes the solitude of doing inventory. The systematic tagging and shelving of artifacts clears her head and she doesn’t mind being alone. Her line, the one that she’s come to think of as Sam’s is the only one of her forearm and she finds herself checking, just in case. After last night, she’s not so sure it’ll stay that way.

She catalogues the artifact that almost killed her yesterday and mentally adds it to the list, staring at the gold pocketwatch now underneath the glass case. She looks for a moment, wondering if this job is really worth the life or death situations.

“Hello,” Helena says quietly, and Myka finds herself wondering, not for the first time, how the other woman manages to sneak up on her. “Artie wouldn’t give me a list,” Helena continues, sighing irritatedly. “I assume, after yesterday’s events, I’m back on his list of threats. Assuming he has one.”

“You never left,” Myka points out, though she hands over a sheet anyway.

Helena accepts it, smiling softly. “For him, maybe. But not for the others.” Myka hears the unspoken _not for you_ loud and clear and she clears her throat, looking anywhere besides the woman standing in front of her.

She points at Helena’s sheet. “Those there are in the next aisle over. These are in this one.” Myka gestures to the aisle they’re currently in and turns to resume her own cataloging, but she’s halted by Helena’s voice.

“Myka,” Helena says, and Myka turns, glancing over her shoulder. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Myka nods and moves a little ways down the aisle, glancing toward Helena to see her looking intently at the inventory sheet. She does the same, looking for the next artifact on her list. Idly, she thinks about how Helena doing half her inventory will cut her day in half. She looks forward to telling Pete later (bragging).

She finds herself face to face with Godfried’s Spoon and she carefully pulls gloves out of her back pocket to relocate it. The artifact reminds her of Helena’s post-it and, more specifically, Helena’s grappler, which currently sits in a box just under Artie’s office. She peeks a glance toward Helena but finds the rest of the aisle empty. She figures Helena had gone to the next one.

Myka looks down sharply when she feels a sinking feeling in her gut, the tingling sensation on her forearm growing more intense. It was like this with Sam, in the beginning, except she doesn’t _want_ this. Not with Helena, or anyone, for that matter.

Myka takes a step back and she hits something -- no, _someone_ \-- and turns quickly. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” Helena says, shrugging. She looks positively amused and Myka only feels annoyed.

Myka takes a step back, distancing herself. “You should exchange tips with Mrs. Frederic.”

“I’m not so sure we have the same interests,” Helena admits, taking a step forward. Her eyes search Myka’s face and Myka can hear her own heart drumming in her ears; she’s sure that there’s a blush creeping up her neck.

“Helena,” Myka tries, not appreciating the way her voice betrays her by coming out in an almost whisper and not sounding like the warning she’d wanted it to, “What are you doing?” She doesn’t want this, she reminds herself, though she makes no effort to move as Helena steps even closer. Her arm itches at her side.

Helena’s dark eyes drift to Myka’s lips. “Isn’t it obvious?” And then she’s leaning in, her lips brushing Myka’s just barely, just the lightest touch as she seeks permission. Myka gives it, pushing forward and bringing her hands up to curl her fingers around the back of Helena’s neck, through her dark, raven hair. She feels Helena’s hands mold against her ribs and her hip, wonders if Helena can feel her heart beating as acute as she can.

Helena’s tongue licks against her lower lip and Myka opens her mouth, tugging Helena even closer. Helena’s mouth moves against her own for a long moment, her fingers digging into Myka’s hip, hard, a moment before she pulls away. She presses her forehead against Myka’s, smiling as she presses a brief kiss to Myka’s lips, a small peck.

“Okay,” Myka breathes.

Helena hums, chuckling under her breath. “After a century --”

“Please do not make a comment about your ability to woo women after being encased in bronze for the last century.” She’s not ready to hear Helena’s version of “I’ve still got it”.

Helena squeezes briefly at Myka’s waist. “I was going to say,” she starts slowly, indignantly, “after a century, I’m glad my first kiss was you, Myka, but,” she pauses, smirking, before adding, “that, too.”

"The car didn't count?" Helena shakes her head and Myka lets her head fall against the shelf behind her, letting out a breath. “You are terrible.”

“Some would disagree,” Helena points out as she takes a step away to brush fingers through her hair. Myka notices the receding of a flush on Helena’s neck and she’s grateful to know that she’s not the only one affected by all of this. Helena picks up a sheet of inventory; Myka had forgotten all about them, and the fact that they’d somehow dropped them mid-kiss. “I have to finish this,” Helena says, a bit ruefully, as she shakes the list in front of Myka.

Myka groans. “God, I feel like I’m playing hooky in high school. Except I didn’t get paid for school work.”

Helena quirks an eyebrow. “Hooky?”

“Nevermind,” Myka says instead of explaining. She resists the urge to touch her lips, where they’re still tingling from the kiss. She’s not sure if she wants to do it again, or if she should do it again. She sort of wishes they could stay in this aisle forever and ignore the world.

 

.

 

Myka feels two sensations.

One, the line on her arm is cooling. Almost like lava, hardening after an eruption; Myka remembers learning about the process in grade school. She would’ve never guessed that the angry looking line next to Sam’s fading scar would turn black right now, in this moment, or that it would feel at all like this. All she can do is ignore it, how _nice_ it feels, and the relief that bubbles in her chest is tampered down by the sickness that quickly follows, partly because the world is more important.

And partly, because the second sensation is the metal of the fun in her hands, significantly colder than the line on her forearm -- especially when, a moment later, the end of the barrel is pressing between her eyes. The end of the barrel, the end of the world, both resting in the hands of a madwoman, who, coincidentally, Myka’s body is telling her that she’s in love with. Myka gives Helena the gun because her line turns black and she hopes -- she _believes_ \-- that Helena’s love is stronger than her pride.

Myka watches Helena’s finger twitch. She hears Artie groaning on the ground. “Kill me,” she urges. “I mean, we’re all going to die anyway, so what’s the difference?”

Helena doesn’t move. Myka yells, “Do it!” And still, she doesn’t. The gun is jerked away from Myka’s head and Helena practically throws the trident at Myka before she curls in on herself, crouching down on the ground. Myka holds the trident like it’s going to move of it’s own volition, her knuckles white. She looks at Helena and feels her chest tighten before she goes to kneel next to Artie, helping to push him onto his back.

“Call the regents, Myka, call them,” he says quietly. “They’ll know what to do with her.”

Myka’s hands hover over his shoulder and she’s not sure what she should do. “What will they do with her?” she asks finally, glancing over at the woman in question. Helena’s hair is draped over her arms, her knees pulled against her chest. “They won’t… bronze her again?”

“No,” he says automatically, painfully. “I don’t know,” he amends. He lets out a low groan and shifts, gritting his teeth in pain. “You need to incapacitate her. Either get handcuffs from the car… or knock her out. She’s a danger, Myka.” His words come out fast and slurred, but she gets the gist.

Myka nods, knowing he’s right. She stands, walking over to Helena. She doesn’t bother covering her arm, doesn’t really care if Helena sees the line. When she reaches Helena’s side, she says, “Get up.”

Helena doesn’t move and doesn’t say a word. Myka’s not even sure if the other woman heard her.

“Agent Wells,” she bites out, “get up.”

Helena finally looks at her, then, and Myka almost breaks her resolve when she sees the tears in Helena’s eyes, just shy of falling down her cheeks. Myka can’t help but look at her forearm, but her blazer covers it, sleeves hiding the line. Myka still can’t believe that her own exists, despite the stark, black like of her own branded on her skin. She knows what it means (and she knows that she isn’t in love with Pete).

“Helena,” Myka says softly, and Helena’s jaw tightens. She breaks Myka’s gaze and pushes herself to her feet, brushing the dirt from her thighs. She only stares straight ahead as she starts walking, leaving Myka to follow her toward the car. She waits  several feet from it when Myka goes digging inside for the handcuffs. Myka comes up empty, settling on a zip tie she dines in Artie’s bag, and she shoots a worried glance toward Helena when she holds it up. “Hands behind your back.”

Helena complies, expression neutral and Myka wonders why when she knows that they would be evenly matched in a fight. That Helena could easily escape and yet, she’s shifting uncomfortably as Myka tightens the tie around her wrists. There are no lingering touches, unlike the first time they’d met, and Myka swears Helena even flinches away from her touch, but she supposes that she could be imagining it. She clears her hand and forces herself to think like an agent, leading Helena into the backseat of the car to restrain her.

She hurries back to Artie. He’s maneuvered himself into a sitting position against a rock and the blood has seeped through his clothes. She breathes out a sigh of relief when she finds him conscious and says, “I guess you’ll never wear that shirt again.”

“My favorite one,” he gasps, pain laced in his words.

She knows it’s bad. She helps him up anyway, ignoring how heavily he leans on her as they limp their way back to the car. “I’m taking you to the hospital,” she tells him, hoping that her tone conveys how much she does not want to argue about this.

“The regents,” he argues, doing exactly the opposites of what she wants him to do. She debates the benefits of knocking him out in her head as he continues, “Helena. She’s dangerous.”

“A lot of people are dangerous. You could be _dying_. I’ll call them later.” She settles him into the passenger seat and is careful to afford herself only one glance at the prisoner in the back. Helena is still starting stubbornly ahead, her eyes glazed over, expressionless. At some point, she’d rolled up her sleeve and when Myka sees it, she can’t help but free, if only for a second. She resumes in clicking Artie’s seatbelt a moment later and attempts to scourge her mind of the image.

Later, when the guards take H.G. away, the older agent stumbling as they drag her roughly from underneath her arms, Myka rubs her thumb over the black line through her shirt.

 

.

 

It’s the first time she’s dealt with a black line, but, with her waning proximity to the warehouse, the line fades. It’s still there, but Myka supposes it has something to do with the pure resentment she feels every time she even thinks of Helena and what had almost happened. Even when Mrs. Frederic brings her and Helena stares at her, her expression earnest and not the least bit regretful, the line doesn’t burn with the intensity it once did. Myka only feels an unsettling feeling in her stomach when she looks at the other woman and she can’t see Helena’s arm to know whether it’s worked the same way on the other side.

And when she’s back working at the warehouse, Helena says that they made a good team, Myka thinks about stolen kisses before imminent death and kisses when there _wasn’t_ death hanging above their heads and she says, “We did.”

But.

Emily Lake’s arm doesn’t have a line. Myka feels like she wants to throw up when she sees Helena at first, because that’s where her eyes go first, that spot on Helena’s arm where she knows it will be. That spot where it’s not. She doesn’t see the flash of recognition in Emily Lake’s eyes and Myka seriously wants to puke in the small trash bin in the corner of this classroom because the line on her arm is still a faded black and Helena’s doesn’t even _exist_. She thinks, bitterly, about what kind of fucked up world they’re living in.

It doesn’t feel right to ask a hologram whether or not she feels the same, even when Myka’s line comes back with an intensity even stronger than the first time right before they’re about the destroy the Janus coin. Helena isn’t even corporeal after seeing and helping Emily Lake, Myka is having so many doubts. Pete is telling her that Helena has to die and all Myka can think about is Emily Lake’s bare arm and the fact that Emily Lake has no idea who the hell Myka is. Who any of them are.

They lose the Janus coin and everything goes to shit, but there’s a plan. Myka prowls down the hallway with her partner at her side, gun at the ready as they follow the sound of Walter Sykes’ voice.

Myka sits in a literal death trap and Helena holds a gun to her head and whispers, “Myka, I’m sorry,” and in that moment, Myka doesn’t have to see the line on her arm to know that Helena loves her. She doesn’t need the reassurance. Myka swallows and she knows that somehow, they’ll get out of this.

They always do.

 

.

 

“Wells and Bering, solving puzzles, saving the day,” Helena croons, messing with the chess pieces above her. Myka can tell that she’s proud of herself. Myka’s a little proud of her, too, but she’s not about to admit it.

She sticks her head up. “Bering and Wells,” she says, smirking at Helena. Helena meets her gaze, eyes filled with something that Myka can’t really place. Myka decides that now is as good as a time as any. She stands, letting out a quick breath. “Take off your jacket.”

Helena does it without question, standing up, and Myka’s grateful for the lack of flirtatious comment she was expecting. And when Myka sees the black line on her arm, she closes the distance between them almost instantaneously, hands coming up to curl around Helena’s cheeks as she presses her lips to Helena’s with a fervor she didn’t know she had. Helena kisses back after a moment with surprise, parting her lips and letting in Myka’s tongue.

Their lips move together, different from the other kisses they’ve shared, and Helena’s thumbs brush against the skin of Myka’s waist, pleasantly sparking gasps from her chest. She pulls back, a need for air interrupting them. She ignores the taste of salt on Helena’s lips from the tears that had come down her face from earlier and allows herself a smile.

They don’t say it. Those three words that are heavy in Myka’s heart are on the edge of her tongue and she wants to, but she knows that right now isn’t the right time, and that, if anything else happens, that Helena knows.

Helena kisses her again, a hand pressing against her stomach, and Myka stumbles into the chess table with a laugh as Helena’s cold fingers and nails dig into her skin.

The portal to the warehouse opens and they need to go through it. “Later,” Helena promises, pressing one more kiss to the corner of Myka’s mouth.

Later, as it turns out, leads to Myka standing in ashes with two scars on her arm instead of one.

 

.

 

They saved the warehouse and Walter Sykes was dead.

Helena pulls her down the hallway, pressing kisses against her neck, pressing her against the wall as her hands roam everywhere, her waist, her breasts, her neck.  Finally, they make it to Myka’s room and somehow manage to lock the door between kisses. It’s Myka who pulls off Helena’s jacket and top and Helena who drops to her knees, fingers pulling at the buttons of Myka’s jeans. She’s pulled Myka’s jeans halfway down her legs when Myka tugs her up, kissing her messily.

They stumble toward the bed, Myka barely making it before she kicks off her jeans, annoyed. Helena chuckles, a sound that Myka has decided that she hates.

She’s thought of this moment for a long time, but never the context. Helena sits on the corner of the bed and Myka stands between her legs, shrugging off her jacket and her shirt. Helena licks her way around Myka’s abdomen, tongue and lips marking the skin without abandon as her hands wrap around and fumble momentarily with the clasp of Myka’s bra. When it comes undone, her mouth immediately wraps around a nipple, a hand kneading the other breast.

Myka leans into her and Helena pulls her onto the bed. It’s Myka who presses her forehead into the junction of Helena’s neck, unzipping Helena’s jeans because she decides that she’s wearing too many clothes. A knee slips between Myka’s legs and she rucks up against it embarrassingly, instinctually before her own hand pushes between them, finding Helena wet and wanting.

She pushes into Helena like that, her own hips working their rhythm against Helena’s thigh as she presses three digits into Helena’s center, feeling muscles contract around her fingers. Helena comes undone beneath her, moaning into her ear and it’s the best thing she’s ever heard, the sound stopping abruptly when she bites into the fleshy part of Helena’s ear. She pushes herself up and kisses Helena, her hand moving even faster, pulling a quick, almost strangled gasp from Helena’s throat.

Helena comes with grace, her hips arching from the bed and into Myka.

Helena flips them over and her mouth finds Myka’s center, tongue working Myka’s clit as she pushes two fingers inside. It doesn’t take much for Myka to tumble over the edge and she doesn’t make a sound, her fingers fisting in the sheets and in Helena’s hair. She tastes herself on Helena’s lips when Helena kisses her.

Later, with Helena wrapped against her and their legs intertwined, Myka notices something peculiar. She stares at her arm and notices that the line isn’t black anymore, but just a scar. She looks at Helena, her hand moving involuntarily to trace a circle on Helena’s shoulder.

She makes a note to ask Artie about it later, but right now she lets herself fall asleep.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY. So this thing ended up being a really big thing and I haven't written for this fandom in a really long time, but I'm glad that I did it! It was an exercise in deadlines. Hope you enjoy and thank you for reading! What an interesting prompt.


End file.
